


Immortals in Paris

by WowItsAlmostLikeICare



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Really Old Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WowItsAlmostLikeICare/pseuds/WowItsAlmostLikeICare
Summary: Booker, a year into his exile, meets a Really Old Guy.This might be just what he needs to heal.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Booker | Sebastian le Livre & Methos (Highlander), Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 178





	1. The Finding

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so first in either fandoms. Love Highlander, love Old Guard so figured why not. All mistakes are my own. This hadn’t been read by a beta so it’s grammer is, like, idk.

Booker met him for the first time in Paris.

A year into his exile, a year spent in a drunken haze.

He’d been sitting in a small bar, a new one. He’d gotten kicked out of a few places, the sad old, lonely drunk that nobody wanted seen at their establishment for fear of scaring off more reputable clientele.

Except he wasn’t sitting alone.

An hour or two into his fest a stranger had joined him at his back table, murmuring an apology about how everywhere else was full.

He’d looked like a student, an image only further cemented by his bringing out of numerous loose files and articles as well as a notepad. He’d spent the time since then writing steadily, taking occasional sips from his drink, a beer.

Booker had been reaching the levels of near intoxicated, his sixth or eighth drink, when the stranger had finally looked up and taken proper notice of him.

“Rough night?” He’d asked. His accent was English, but with hints of something else, maybe welsh, all curling vowels and smooth consonants.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the loneliness finally catching up with him, but Booker found himself answering. 

“Rough year, rough life,” he’d answered, voice heavy with drink, “And you? One doesn’t normally come to a bar like this to study.”

If he’d surprised himself with answering, it was nothing compared to the shock he felt at his mouth opening, acting without his permission, continuing to talk to this stranger.

The student grinned.

“What can I say? I like to drink whilst I work, and this place has some of the best beer this side of Paris.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve been doing much drinking.”

The student looked mournfully down at his drink. He sighed.

“No, studying doesn’t often lend itself well to drinking,” he brightened considerably,“But I only have these exams to pass then I’m free.” He smiled.

Booker had found himself suddenly uncomfortably reminded of his own lack of mortality at that naïve smile. God, the student looked so young, with nothing to worry about but his work, no depressing longevity interspersed with dying friends and family who you’d leave in the dust as you continued to go on and on with time’s dull march, endless for only you.

“Well good luck with that.” He said, standing suddenly, tired with it all.

He hadn’t waited for the student to reply, simply walking out of the bar, prepaid drink in hand. He’d find another place to hole up in, in the meantime.

+

The second time was a month later, and this time it was Booker who joined the student’s table.

It was a different bar, a brighter one than their first meeting place.

He was exhausted, the past few sleepless nights had been filled with the pain-filled screams of Nicky, as the doctors cut into him, the fear in Joe’s eyes as he stared helpless at his other half, the betrayal in Andy’s voice and, again and again, the mad cries of Quynh as she drowned over and over, eternally damned.

Booker had entered, halfway there to partially drunk, and had already ordered another drink before he’d noticed that all the bar’s tables were full.

He scanned the room, looking for any out-of-the way hidden seats. There were none. He had groaned, preparing to finish his drink as quick as possible whilst still standing before going out to another, emptier, bar when a warm hand encircled his arm.

He’d looked up into the student’s face.

“Hey,” the student said, “come join me.”

Booker, weighed down, too tired, found himself agreeing.

The table was far to the right , littered with a few empty bottles of beer, and the student expertly steered Booker towards it.

He pushed him down into a seat and then took the opposite one.

“Sorry, I don’t recall your name.” Booker found himself blurting out, suddenly feeling awkward at the silence.

The student smiled, lazily, waving aside Booker’s apology, dismissing it.

“I didn’t tell you it,” he stuck his hand out, “Adam Pierce at your service.”

“Sebastian.”

Adam didn’t mention his obvious lack of surname, just sprawling out further in his chair, a boneless heap. Booker wasn’t sure how he did it.

“So, Sebastian, what brings a man like you so far down in the dumps?”

Booker raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Adam shrugged.

“Sorry, I don’t believe much in small talk. Dulls the mind, takes time. I mean, I don’t have forever do I?”

Booker found himself chocking out a startled laugh. _You might not have forever, but I do_ , he thought. But it made him smile, smile at this man’s complete lack of etiquette. It was refreshing.

“Family,” he found himself, yet again, replying, “My family.”

Adam looked at him for a moment then stood suddenly.

“Well then, I think that calls for far more alcohol then what we’ve consumed so far. I’ll get the drinks, you stay there for a moment.”

Booker blinked, surprised, and before he knew it, Adam was returning, laden with numerous beverages in a varied array of colours.

“Sorry, didn’t know what you liked, so, well, I got everything.” He placed the drinks down on the table before sliding back into his seat.

Booker, swept along by his energy, grabbed one, toasting with Adam, before downing it as quick as he could.

“Right then,” he said, “let’s get absolutely smashed.”

+

They parted ways early the next morning, when the bartender had had enough, and kicked them out with all the other late nighters.

Adam had grinned up at him, and with clumsy hands, dug out his phone. 

He’d bought it on a whim, one night. He’d ditched his older phone, the one that had Andy and Nicky and Joe’s numbers in- his family ( _the ones you betrayed, all for your own selfish desires_ , a dark part of him crooned, the part that had kept him up at night, that led him to drinking blindly ‘till his death, whereupon his awakening he’d start all over again.)

Ditched it for fear that in one of his moods, his resolve would weaken and he’d call those dreaded numbers, call them begging. And have no one answer, the numbers out-of-service, disbanded, thrown away, like him. The faint hope that the numbers were still active was better than the sure knowledge that he’d been abandoned.

Adam had taken his phone out and demanded that Booker unlock it. He did so, startled.

Adam had then, with one hand, typed in his number, saving his contact, and with the other, typed Booker’s own number into his phone. He then returned Booker’s phone back to him and, with a promise to call later in the afternoon, ambled away.

Booker hadn’t thought much of it, just headed back to his own, dark and dingy place. 

So he was very surprised to be awoken, much later when rays of sun struggled to shine through his grimy window, by a call.

+

He fumbled around for the ringing phone, locating it at last in the pocket of his pants from last night, fishing it out before slumping back down onto where he’d fallen asleep on the couch.

“Hello?” Booker mumbled, rubbing his face with a tired hand.

“Booker, hello!”

“ _Adam?_ ” Booker exclaimed, surprised.

“Hey, I said I’d call.”

“You did. I didn’t know you were serious about it though.” A tiny burst of warmth filled him at the thought. He ruthlessly quashed it.

“Well I was. And so here I am, inviting you along with me.”

“Inviting me along? How very—1920 of you.” 

He spoke nonsense, the first thing that came to mind, not answering Adam’s implied question, to cover up the unease he felt. The exile was a punishment. If he accepted this, was he cheating the rules? Did he really think that he deserved this? He knew the answer to that. He had betrayed them, his _family_. He gathered himself, preparing to deny Adam, when the man in question completely steamrolled over him.

“Why yes, yes it is. Well old sport, you coming?”

Booker felt a sudden burst of courage.

“Yes. Only if you never say that again.”

Adam laughed.

“Promise.”

+

Adam was waiting for him, half an hour later, outside his apartment block, having followed Booker’s rushed directions over the phone.

He was still wearing an overly large sweater and jeans, and in the light of day he seemed impossibly young. Booker shoved aside the feelings the thought provoked and hurried over, sliding into the passenger seat of Adam’s car.

“Hey Sebastian, sleep well?” He asked, leaning over slightly to adjust his mirror.

“Yes. Yourself?”

“Well enough.”

Then, feeling suddenly emboldened, Booker turned slightly to face Adam.

“I thought you said you hated small talk?” He asked.

Adam smirked at him.

“Just wanted to test the waters, you are, after all, the first stranger I’ve randomly invited on an outing.”

“Oh really? And here I thought you made a habit of it.”

Adam snorted amused.

“Guess your just special then.” He said before finally starting the car and pulling away.

+

They arrived at their destination, a place Adam had refused to tell him about beforehand, saying how _it was a surprise, Sebastian, need to know and all that._

And perhaps that should have worried Booker, but, after all, what could possibly be done to him? ( and maybe, _maybe_ , if something _was_ done, some part of him believed that he’d deserve it).

Adam parked the car before going out his side and opening the door for Booker.

He got out, stumbling on the uneven ground before straightening. And freezing.

He hadn’t noticed, as they’d driven, how deserted it had become, how empty and devoid of people.

Adam had parked at a small clearing, an _impossible_ clearing for they were still in Paris, but a clearing nonetheless.

But that wasn’t what had caused him to freeze. No, it was the small storefront behind it. An antiques. And there, in one of its dusty windows, was a shabby painting. A small painting, an old, _beautiful_ , painting. But clear, clear enough for him to see the subjects.

To see the faces of his children.

“I love these sort of places. So _hidden_. Untouched by time, contains objects similarly so. Want to check it out?” Adam remarked and asked, blandly.

(—later, much much later, Booker would ask, again and again, _how? How? How_ had he found it, arranged it, seen it? And Adam would only smile beatifically down at him, and shrug, and say, _well, a magician never reveals his secrets_ , and the subject would be dropped. 

But Booker, he would notice, and remember, how all those nights, _years_ , ago, he’d seen Joe and Nicky, look at one of those pictures, look, but maybe, maybe, just maybe, never give back—but that was later, after, far after, Booker realised that no matter what, his family loved, _loved_ , him—)

Booker couldn’t voice his agreement fast enough.

He half-ran into it, ignoring the impossibly high shelves around him, ignoring the called out greeting of the owner. He fixated on the photo, lifting it with trembling hands.

In his grief, long ago grief, and anger, at the unfairness of it all, he’d destroyed everything, every last bit of evidence of his past, of his life before death, his _true life_. And when the initial storm had passed, when the blinding anger had lessened, he’d found himself with _nothing_ , nothing of his beloved children, his sons.

And now, here of all places, here was _something_.

He clutched at it, the way a drowning man clutched at air, clutched at support to lift him out of chocking, cold waters. 

His cheeks ran wet with silent tears.

He moved, half-gone in a daze, cradling his precious burden to the till.

“Just this please.” He didn’t recognise his voice, didn’t remember paying, didn’t remember walking back into the car.

He sat still, in his seat, Adam a silent sentinel, next to him.

“Who are you?” He asked at last, voice quiet.

Adam turned to regard him with solemn eyes.

“A friend of a concerned party.”

“Concerned party?”

“Your family. You didn’t think they had forgotten you?”

Booker finally, sitting in a near-strangers beaten-up car, clutching at a painting of a long dead time, broke down into ugly, gasping sobs. 

It was a release and a benediction and a damnation all at once.

Adam waited for him, judgement nowhere to be found on his face, to finish.

“I can show you how to live.” He said, voice calm, collected and _old_.

There was only one thing for Booker to say.

“Please.”


	2. The Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn’t proof read this so sorry for all the mistakes you’ll undoubtedly find. Enjoy!

After, Adam took Booker to his apartment. 

“Stay,” he said, “Rest.”

He did.

+

They sat, the next evening, at Adam’s dining table, takeout on its surface. Booker was glad. He couldn’t look at home meals without thinking of Nicky and Joe, and how—

“Hey.”

He blinked, focusing on Adam sitting in front of him. The other, thankfully, didn’t mention his momentary lapse of concentration.

He cleared his throat. 

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you had a passport.”

Booker had a faint recolition of throwing it, and all its partners, sometime ago, in a drunken anger, into the fireplace of his building, and watching it burn.

“No, I don’t.” He said simply.

Adam drummed his fingers, humming thoughtfully.

“How do you feel about London?”

Booker didn’t know how he felt about London. How he felt about anything, really. He didn’t think he was _allowed_ to, _shouldn’t_ be allowed to. London.

Booker felt a small curl of fear at the thought. Merrick was there, his betrayal was there, the screams, the accusing eyes, if he went back would they find him? Shouldn’t they find him? Didn’t he _deserve_ that, after all he’d done? He’d made his bed, so surely, surely, he should go lie in it.

Adam was speaking but it was a faint buzz in the back of his mind.

He’d done that, done that to his _family_. The family that had cared for him, had taken him in, been with him for more than a century.

“Prague? Vienna? Kathmandu?” Adam’s voice came through, barely there, but—

“ _Kathmandu?_ ” The suggestion, in it’s bizarreness startled him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you try it. But, no, I suppose you wouldn’t want to go there.” He didn’t say why though. Booker was grateful.

Adam snapped his fingers suddenly.

“Lithuania.” He said.

“Lithuania?”

“Yeah. I speak the language you know? And it’s got good food, good beer and good internet. What else is there to ask for?”

Booker stared at the other man in disbelief. Adam just blinked back up at him. 

Booker searched his face but there was no expectation, no judgement to be found there. The other likely wouldn’t care at all if he refused. And maybe that, in itself, was reason enough to say yes.

“Fuck it. Lithuania it is.”

+

The flight was crowded, cheap. Booker had turned to Adam, once they’d found their seats, at the back near the bathroom, crammed to the side, and stared at him in incredulous disbelief.

Adam shrugged.

“Hey, Adam Pierce is a recently graduated uni student, he can’t afford better, so neither can I.”

Booker sighed, pressing his body back into his far-too-small, hard, seat. At least he’d managed to bag the window one. Already he could feel a headache forming.

Adam payed him no mind, much to Booker’s relief, wholly focused on the novel in his hands.

Booker sighed again, wondering what the hell he was even doing. _Merde_ , he didn’t even know his travelling companion, had taken the other on his word that he’d been sent by friendly allies, without checking for himself.

For all he knew, this man, this stranger, could be one of Merrick’s men, one of their competitors even, someone who sought the secret of their longevity. He’d been stupid, so _stupid_ , to get onto a fucking aeroplane with an unknown variable.

He deserved whatever might happen to him for this blunder alone.

Panic clawed suddenly at his sides, his hands shaking. He needed—needed—a drink. Now. He turned, preparing to stand and go find a stewardess, go find a sharp drink to numb everything.

And met Adam’s dark eyes, watching him steadily.

He couldn’t read them, those depths unfathomable, reminding him starkly of Nicky. No judgement was to be found there but no comfort either. They were just observing him, taking him in.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, quieter than he had intended, “But I need—“

“What you _need_ to do is sit down.” Adam interjected sharply.

Booker stared.

Adam raised an eyebrow back at him.

“ _Sit_ ”

Booker sat.

“Good. Now tell me what happened.”

“What happened?”

“Stop stalling. You panicked. Why?”

Booker felt a flare of indignation at the other man’s audacity.

“Well, if you must know, it was _you._ ” He said snidely.

Adam hummed.

“Finally realised that you’d been swept along by a virtual stranger, did you? Well its nice to know that you’ve got some semblance of self-preservation.”

Booker scowled.

Adam grinned in response.

“Don’t worry, Andy was much the same when I met her.”

There was silence.

“Aren’t you going to elaborate?” Booker asked, once it had become clear that Adam had no intention of finishing his incredibly cryptic statement.

“No. But needless to say Andy found herself halfway across the continent with nothing but an unknown man before she realised that she’d didn’t need or want to listen to me, and left.” He turned to face Booker again, “Shall we see how far you get?” 

His eyes glinted. Booker found himself nodding. 

Adam, seemingly satisfied, returned to his book.

+

Lithuania was cold. He should have been expecting it, it being Winter after all, but the sheer _iciness_ of the chill still shocked him.

Adam seemed wholly unaffected, which Booker found extremely unfair as he stood there, teeth chattering.

But he’d used to be good with it, used to be able to walk outside in nothing but a shirt and trousers in the coldest of his countries winters. His wife had used to joke about it, leaning into him, calling him her own _petite feur_. She used to tuck her fingers beneath his shirt, warming them up, laughing at his startled yelps. 

The cold had just never seemed to bother him. A fact, that had only been further cemented once he’d joined the armies fighting for Napoleon. He was one of the lucky ones, one of the ones used to the cold, not bothered by it nor noticing the below zero temperatures they were forced to walk through.

That’d all changed when he’d been caught. They stripped him of his belongings, left him dangling there. Only he’d come back. Again. And again.

That cold, bone-numbing freeze that’d spread through all of his cells, turning his skin horrid colours of frost bitten blacks and blues, had invaded every part of him as he hung there. 

He’d been stuck there, for God knows how long before being rescued by by the others. By that time, he felt as if his very blood had merged with the ice surrounding him, the cold never leaving.

People laughed and joked about the failure of Napoleon’s advance on Russia, but all he could ever see where those long days, trudging, endlessly on and on, limbs _shaking_. He hadn’t been able to handle it.

And it was almost as if his body still retained some vestige of that Russian winter cold, still carried it around with him, as sure as his immortality, infecting him still, weakening him.

His body ran cold now.

Adam led him through the Airport, following signs not in any language that he’d ever learnt.

The man was a mystery, he thought, an enigma.

He’d seen those eyes watching him, watching with immeasurable years behind them. Yet, he wasn’t one of them. He knew that. So why did he feel so old?

And he knew that whatever he’d seen in those eyes, the heavy weight of time, all that, had only been what Adam had _let_ him see.

It was like being with—with _Andy_.

He shoved the thought away and hurried to catch up with the strange man in front of him.

+

A week in and Booker sat by himself, at the hotel table, drinking the mini bar.

Adam asked him at the start of each day if Booker wanted to accompany him around the city, and every day Booker politely refused. Other than that he mainly been left to his own devices, Adam leaving early in the mornings to run various errands, and only returning late in the evening.

There’d be silence when they sat down to eat together, Booker not wanting to speak and Adam seemingly not caring enough to put in the effort.

Which was fine. Fine.

Only, Booker thought that there’d be _more_.

He could accept that some part of him had thought, or maybe hoped, that this stranger would solve it immediately, with a simple snap of his fingers. Solve him. But that hadn’t happened. In fact nothing had happened. Wishful thinking.

And maybe, maybe, the loneliness had begun to creep back in. Hence the drinking. He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the hotel room’s door opening, Adam slipping in with arms laden with bags.

He didn’t comment on Booker’s tipsy state, nor the sight of him surrounded by various empty bottles. In fact, he was almost, _ignoring_ him. Booker fought a strange pang in his chest.

“Your not judging me.” Booker burst out, wanting to, _needing_ to break the silence.

“Judging you?” Adam asked, still not looking up as he flitted around the room, doing _whatever_ it was that he was doing.

“For drinking.” He said hands sweeping out in a grand gesture, indicating the littered bottles, trying to draw Adam’s attention back to him.

“It’d be a bit hypocritical of me.” Adam spoke, absentmindedly.

“They— _they_ always judged.” He spat out, ignoring Adam’s words. Maybe he was drunker than he’d thought. He felt out of control, anger filling him.

Adam finally turned to face him, but Booker was drunk, he was angry and so—so _done_ , with everything and continued, uncaring.

“Oh, they’d never say anything, but I could _feel_ their stares, the silent critiquing. Andy drunk just as much, if not more, as me, but you never saw them hov- hov- hovering over her!

And I got it, ok? I was the newbie, the _baby_. But they always forgot that I was an adult! New to immortality or- or not. And maybe I wasn’t centuries old or something, but I was married, had children, fought in a _fucking_ war! I had a life! And they always seemed to forget that. I could drink if I wanted to, and I didn’t need their- their _pity_.”

“So you thought that they pitied you?”

“I _know_ they did. Con- con- condescended to me too, the-the _bastards_.”

Adam sank down in the seat opposite him, grabbing one of his drinks and taking a large pull from it before looking at him, gesturing for him to continue.

“It’s just, that, sometimes I felt like no matter what I did, all they saw was that terrified solider they’d found in the middle of nowhere Russia. That, they looked at me after my families death, looked and felt guilt for _allowing_ me to go back, shame at what I had become. And that was all I could see in their eyes.”

Booker take a heaving breath as Adam regarded him with solemn eyes.

“You didn’t expect they’d worry for you, didn’t know how to handle it when they did. Mistook their caring for pity, their fear for you as judgement. And yes, they should have sat down and talked to you about it, the ballad doesn’t lie solely on your shoulders. But would that have helped?” Adam spoke, voice soft. 

“What do you mean?”

“The drinking. It was a by-product only, a coping mechanism. You were in mourning. Not only for the family you’d lost, but for _you_. For the life that should have been yours. Your control had been taken from you. And that was something they’d forgotten.”

Booker was quiet under Adam’s gaze.

“Yes. I mean, you’re right.” 

“I know. Now, are you going to come out with me tomorrow morning?”

Booker blinked at the sudden conversation change.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Good.” He stood,“Oh, and whilst your at it, clean up the mess, won’t you?” He said before moving to his room and shutting the door.

Booker felt a slightly hysterical laugh escape him at the mundane command. He cleaned it all up anyways. 

+

Things changed after.

Every morning Booker set out with Adam, traversing the many streets of Vilnius’s Old Town, taking it all in.

It was old European, with none of the memories the others invoked. It was _freeing_. It’d been so long since he’d been to a new place.

Booker found himself falling in love with it.

And Adam was the best travel partner one could have.

He both knew everything and nothing, leading them down street after street until they were hopelessly lost, but seemed to know every location for good food and drink in the city.

Days were spent flitting in and out of various shops, hours whiled away, doing nothing.

It was different then the time he’d spent with his family.

Adam was nothing like them. He had a dry humour, a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. 

But mainly it was because he, unlike them didn’t walk on eggshells around him, didn’t fear accidentally setting him off. And Booker had no obligations to Adam, didn’t have to pretend to feel things he didn’t, didn’t have to put up a façade of happiness. Even if he did, Booker was sure Adam would see right through it.

It was liberating.

They spent a month there. 

Until one day Adam turned to him and told him it was time to leave. Off to their next adventure, he said, a mocking twist in his voice.

Booker had agreed. 

And that was how their grand tour of Europe started.

+

“Fuck, its so cold.” Booker said, from where he stood shivering at his place on the boat. They were crossing a Fjord and the icy winds nipped at him.

Adam called it exposure therapy. Booker called it torture.

Speaking of the other man, Adam stood at the edge the rail, utterly unrepentant.

“Quit your whining. No one likes a negative nelly. Besides weren’t you the one who boasted the other night about how little you complained? Hypocrite.”

A couple, wearing only long pants and t-shirts, looked at his many layered ensemble and snickered at him.

Booker, pride bruised, walked the walk of shame back down to the warm cabins.

+

“Why do you think you betrayed them?” Adam asked, one night. A glass of wine was held elegantly in his hand, a change of pace from his usual fare.

The question didn’t shock him. They’d been building up to it for a while now.

“I wanted to die, I _really_ wanted to die.” He answered, voice breaking slightly.

Adam tipped his head back lazily, eyes closed.

“You were executed. The others died on their own terms, they died fighting in wars they believed in. But you didn’t.” He mused.

It was jarring to hear his and their deaths, spoken of so, so, _dismissively_. Adam’s eyes opened, head turning to face him, voice measured and even. A soothing balm to Booker’s own uncomfortable feelings with addressing the Issue.

“This grief your feeling, this lack of control, should have been addressed long ago. But it wasn’t, they’d didn’t realise. Didn’t see how that might have affected you differently to their own deaths.”

Booker felt compelled to add his own two cents to the conversation, his own feelings.

“Once I was caught, I, I didn’t fight it.”

“You were resigned.”

“Yes.”

“Some part of you had accepted that you’d die in that unforgivable Russian terrain. And part of you likely did.”

There was a silence as it sunk in. He felt calmer then he though he should be, confronted by his past, his betrayal and his death so casually was strangely… _freeing_. A sudden thought struck him.

“What about Nile? She wasn’t fighting when she was killed.”

Adam hummed thoughtfully.

“It’s still different. She was in a combat situation. She wasn’t killed by her own people in a public ceremony. You were killed for being a coward, deserting your people. And you were happy to accept the punishment for that. But you came back. And you were left feeling unfulfilled.”

“Yes.”

“Felt like that you didn’t deserve this second chance. That and your family’s death meant you didn’t, couldn’t go on.”

“ _Yes_.”

It was a relief, a relief to have all those unsaid words spoken, to be _known_ in this way. He felt like he was drowning, drowning in a stormy sea, Adam his only anchor.

Adam sighed.

“Booker I want you to listen to me very carefully. What you did, was wrong, the blame lying solely on your shoulders. But that you’d gotten to that point, despite being surrounded by those that care for you, that you’d felt _desperate_ enough? That’s on them.”

Adam leaned forwards, drawing Booker’s full attention.

“I will help you.” He said. “ I _can_ help you. But I’m just one man. You need to wake up and start to _live_ again”

Booker drew in a shuddering breath and nodded.

“Okay, I can do that.”

+

“Russia?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. I’m thinking France then.”

“Fuck you Adam.”

“Hmm, you wish.” Adam winked salaciously.

“Fine we’ll go. Just please, never do that again.”

“Problems with your masculinity Booker?”

“Problems with you more like.” He muttered. Adam only laughed.

“Thinking of you like that is weird, I see you more like, I don’t know, family. It’d feel like incest.”

“Booker, do you see me as a brother figure?” He asked, face lit up with unholy glee.

“More like a bother figure, ‘cos your always bothering me.” Booker retorted, automatically.

Adam snickered. Booker groaned. He blamed Nile for this, her and the infrequent texts she’d started to send him.

But he couldn’t ignore the warmth he felt at Adam’s lack of denial at his claim.

+

“Give me your warmth. It’s cold.” Adam demanded of the other man sitting next to him. 

They’d only spent a few days in bitterly cold Paris before a man had appeared, claiming to be a friend of Adam’s.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and extremely good looking. Adam called him Boy Scout. Said Scotsman introduced himself as ‘Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.’ Booker felt like he was missing something.

The claim of friendship had definitely proven true, the continued, light-hearted teasing between the two, evidence of that.

Duncan gave a sigh of the long time sufferer but shrugged off his coat and bundled Adam up in it. Adam let out a small sound of contentment.

Booker narrowed his eyes.

“And you’re allowed to complain, are you?”

Duncan snorted.

“All he ever does is complain. Especially about the cold. He hates it.”

“Oh he does, does he?”

“Mmm. About almost as much as he does boats.”

“ _Oh, really?_ ”

+

“How high did you say the alcohol percentage was?”

“I didn’t.”

“What was that? My head’s ringing too loudly.”

“I said, I didn’t.”

“Adam, I think I’m dying.”

“Oh, so you are. Strange, I feel fine.”

Booker had a sudden realisation. Whenever he’d seen Adam, the man had been drinking some form of alcohol.

Whoever, _whatever_ , Adam was, he’d clearly been chugging beer instead of water since his birth, a birth, Booker was beginning to suspect, that was a long long time past in history. 

And the bastard knew it to, which meant he’d _let_ Booker do this to himself. Little fucker. His stomach gave another twinge.

“Adam?”

“Yes?”

“When I come back, I’m going to kill you.”

Adam patted his spasming leg.

“You do that, Sebastian, you do that.”

+

“What are you?” Booker asked one day, after a week of quiet mulling over of what he’d seen, how he’d witnessed Adam healing from a cut gained, instantly. A part of him wondered if he was _meant_ to have seen it. The other part knew the answer to that.

“Human.”

“Really Adam?”

“What? I am human. Just with something a little extra added in. You didn’t think you were the only unexplainable thing in this world, did you?”

“No, but I’d assumed.” Booker frowned. “How come we’ve never come across one of you, then? What’s the little extra?”

“We’re immortal, like you, but you and yours mean nothing to us. That’s why both groups never really interact. Even if they did, we’d never have a reason to suspect the other of being anything but a normal mortal.”

“You said like us, but not. What’s the difference?”

“Ah. Well, we _can_ be killed, and regularly are, by our own kind no less.”

“What? Why?”

“Greed, power, self-defence. Same old story.”

Booker frowned again.

“Are there… _other_ unexplainable things?”

Adam blinked at him, looking shocked. Booker didn’t trust him for one second.

“But of course! Don’t you know about the Vampires? Or the Old Gods?”

“Va— _vampires?_ ” He spluttered, “Old Gods? You’re not serious, are you? _Are you?_ ” A realisation dawned on him.

“Wait, Adam, Andy says she was worshipped as a god once— you don’t mean— she couldn’t have— _Adam?_ ”

He was ignored.

“Come back here and answer the question, goddamnit! _Adam!_ ”

+

Booker stared down, in disbelief, at the food on his plate.

“It’s a head.”

“Yep.”

“Adam there’s a head on my plate. Why’s there a head on my plate?”

“Growing boys need protein, Sebastian.”

Booker felt slightly nauseous at the sight.

“Eat. It’s a delicacy in some places. A Smiley, Svið, or even Powsowdie, if you want to be special.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think this is one of those places. It looks like it’ll _kill_ me.”

“Well, if it does, we know it won’t stick.” Adam added cheerfully.

The sheep’s head hit Adam’s own with a satisfying thwack.

+

“ _You!_ ” Booker snarled, from the veranda they stood under in sunny Florence.

“You!” Amanda answered, delighted.

“Oh, you two know each other then?” Adam asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes! She left me standing with a handful of stollen gems outside the Museo del Prado in 1892.”

“Well, you got out alright, didn’t you?”

“They had me executed!”

Amanda looked at him a little dubiously, as if worried for his sanity. Or blood pressure.

“You look fine now.” She said looking baffled at his indignation.

“ _That’s not the point!_ ”

“Well, if you two know each other I’ll take my leave. Catch you later Sebastian.” Adam said, already turning to go.

“Don’t you dare just _leave_ me here! Not with her!”

“Oh we’ll have so much fun, darling.”

“ _Adam!_ ”

+

The sat in silence for a few minutes.

“So what _was_ it that you actually stole?”

Amanda brightened, visibly perking up.

“Gadrooned cup with an eagle’s head.”

“Pardon?”

Amanda laughed. 

“Gadrooned cup with an eagle’s head. They didn’t know who made it, though it was believed to be a part of the Sarachi workshop, maybe in about 1680. And it had 88 gems.” 

“Had?”

“It has twenty now. The others were mysteriously lost.” She winked at him, playfully.

“Mysteriously lost huh?” Booker felt a reluctant smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

“Yes. Mysteriously lost. Not that we’d know anything about that, now would we, darling?”

“Nothing at all.”

He was full-on grinning now.

+

Booker prodded, doubtfully, at the thing on his plate. He’d taken only a few bites, but was already suspicious of the man opposite him’s claim of it being a high-end delicacy. It didn’t taste like one.

“Adam, what exactly is this?”

“There you go again, disrespecting others culture. Live a little, eat.”

“Adam.”

“Yes?”

“What. Is. This.”

“ _Ngish_.” He said innocently. Booker wasn’t fooled.

“In English?”

“Dick.” He said gleefully.

“ _Adam!_ ”

+

“How old are you?”

“Find out for yourself.”

+

“Connor Macleod of the Clan Macleod.”

Booker wondered if he was somehow related to the other.

“Sebastian of—uh— France?” He answered belatedly.

The other man watched him severely for a few minutes. His stare was similar to Andy’s, just as intimidating. And, well, it didn’t hurt anymore, no pang of guilt, at the thought of her, just a small bubble of warmth.

“You are the one travelling with Adam, yes?”

“Yes.”

The other man made a sound. Wether it was a positive or negative one, Booker didn’t know. The stare on the man’s face made it seem like it was probably the latter.

“Can I, uh, help you?” 

“No, it is I, who has been tasked with helping _you_.”

“Oh?” Booker looked around, hoping to find some reason why, why on _Earth_ , this random man, this stranger, had a) spoken to him, and b) been tasked with _helping_ him.

“Can I ask who ‘tasked’ you with this?”

The other man’s brow furrowed.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Adam of course.”

“Adam?” Booker felt a headache forming.

“Yes.”

“And, can I assume, from this, that Adam is no longer in the country?”

“No.”

“He left me here with you, a stranger?”

“Yes.”

“And how exactly, does he think that’s going to help my, quote unquote, _extensive issues_.”

The older man shrugged.

“I’m going to _kill_ him!”

The other man finally showed a human emotion, other than a negative one, and grinned.

“He has that effect on people, yes.”

+

“Amanda says five thousand.”

“Amanda should learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“She told me she’d met you whilst she was a student. That her teacher had told her who you were, how old you were.”

“Oh?”

“That was at least a thousand years ago, Adam.”

“Hmm. So it was. Your point?”

“You’re full of shit Adam. And a liar.”

Adam laughed.

“Is that all?”

“And you’ve been going as five thousand for at least two thousand.”

“Bright boy.”

+

Booker sat morosely on the floor, half drunk.

“I betrayed my family, my family. How could I do that, do that to them?” He said, again.

“You were desperate for it all to end. Desperate people do desperate things. I mean just look at reality Tv.”

“ _Adam_.”

Something in his tone must have caught Adam’s attention because he straightened up, amusement falling away from his face as he became more serious.

There was a silence. Adam seemed to be struggling with himself, deciding wether to say something or not. He finally reached a decision.

“I used to have a...brother. Only he was so much more than that. Brother, friend, lover, saviour. He was everything to me, I belonged to him, _with_ him. Together we found two more like us and before we knew it, we had made a family. I spent thousands, _thousands_ , of years with them, riding. Except we weren’t good, not like you and yours. 

They feared us, the four riders of destruction. I could fill an ocean with all the blood I’ve spilt. And I didn’t care, didn’t regret it. But I left. And not because I felt _guilt_ , not because I felt _remorse_. No, it was because I’d grown _bored_ , bored with the endless bloodshed, it was because the times were rapidly changing and I _needed_ to change with them to survive. I left.”

He paused.

“He found me again. And I betrayed him, him and the others, orchestrated their death, killed my companions of more than a thousand years. And for what? A young righteous Scot? Because I believed it was the right thing to do? To save lives? 

The times had changed but they refused to change with it and I answered this with death. It was the only way I could survive. And I value my survival. I betrayed them, killed them, for this. Between you and I Booker, who is the more monstrous?”

“But you said it yourself. They were bad.”

“And so was I. Who am I to sit on top of my gilded throne, gaze down at them and judge, judge actions that I myself had done? Who was I to cast that stone? To decide what was good or not? No, Booker, do not delude yourself. This was no deed done for the good of anyone but myself. I betrayed them, as simple as that.”

He turned to look at Booker and spoke more quietly, voice warmer. 

“They will forgive you. They still love you. You are their family, and no matter how much family pisses you off sometimes, they are still just that, family. Forgiveness will come. But trust? That will not be won back so easily.”

“How do I do it?”

“First work on helping yourself. Then you can worry about earning back their trust.”

Booker nodded. And no more was said about it. A month later he was finally ready, their travels coming to a stop. He settled down, started therapy with one of Adam’s kind. It was a start.

A few weeks into it, he received his first card from his family.

And smiled.

+

**Author's Note:**

> Eh?


End file.
